Cross Her Heart(53)

There were a few other small news items but nothing with much more detail. Father had died of a heart attack several years earlier, after which Katie had cared for her mother who had struggled to cope with widowhood. Against another report of Katie’s drowning, there’s a picture, grainy, of a woman on the beach, long dark hair and sunglasses, tanned. Nondescript and taken from a distance. Was this the best they had?

Katie Batten’s body has not been recovered. I re-read the line, over and over. Did she ever wash up? Is this why Lisa is so convinced Katie took Ava? Does she really believe she’s not dead? Could it be her? But why? There’s no reason. Surely she wouldn’t want anything to do with Charlotte Nevill again even if she did find her? The newspapers have made it clear over the past few days that Charlotte’s guilt wasn’t in doubt. She was seen killing Daniel and she admitted it. Why would Katie want to come back into Charlotte’s life now?

I have another sip of my coffee. It’s Jon. Jon sent the messages from his Facebook. Jon is the one who’s vanished with Ava. The police know what they’re talking about. Trust them, not your crazy ex-best friend.

I close the computer down. Enough is enough. I’ve got my own problems. The police will find Jon and Ava. They will. I don’t want to think about the nature of the messages he was sending her. Even the bright lights of the hotel can’t dispel their darkness.





43


LISA

It’s the sudden stiffness in Alison’s spine that alerts me. She presses the mobile phone a little too close to her ear. It must be Bray and my head spins and darkness threatens the corners of my vision. God no. Please, not Ava. Please, not Ava. The fear is about to overwhelm me when Alison glances back over her shoulder to where I sit on the edge of my chair, gripping my mug of tea. She’s furtive, not sympathetic, a wariness in her expression. A wariness of me. My fear for Ava’s immediate safety is replaced by my own survival instinct kicking in. Something is wrong.

Alison gives me a tight half-smile and tries to look casual as she goes to her bedroom to continue the call. As the door clicks shut I dart from my chair and press my ear against the wood. For the first time since they moved me from our house to this awful flat, I’m happy about its cheap manufacture. The door is thin, and although I can’t make out every word – she’s speaking quietly – I catch some phrases … will do … I’ll be fine … No, she’s the same as she has been. I’ll lock the door … act normal until you get here.

Shit, shit, shit. My face burns as my hands cool. I’m all animal instinct now, and my instinct is telling me I have to get out of here at whatever cost. Something’s happened and they’re coming for me. What happens to Ava then? Will that be the game over? I can’t risk it, and I can’t risk being arrested. I am still Charlotte Nevill. They won’t see a victim.

There’s movement on the other side of the door and I am suddenly terrifyingly calm. I run to the kitchen and grab the kettle, the water inside sloshing heavy as I run back. The bedroom door is opening as I reach it, and Alison steps back a little, surprised to see me so close. Fear. I see fear.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say quietly. She barely has time to look confused before I swing the kettle around and hit her on the side of the head. The thump makes my stomach clench and she reels backwards, crumpling on to the carpet, dazed and hurt, a gasp of air whoomping from her chest. I don’t hesitate but snatch the mobile phone and run to the front door, grabbing my old handbag and the keys from the table in the hall.

‘Lisa, Lisa, don’t …’ Her voice is quiet, an effort.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say again. My shaking hands pull the front door open before double locking it from the outside, the key almost dropping from my fingers as I hear her banging against the other side. Too late, Alison, too late. She’s trapped inside with no phone. I still don’t have much time. Bray is on her way here, I know it.

I run. I don’t hear sirens as I jog towards the town. Good. That’s good.

I pray to a God I don’t believe in before trying my debit card in a cashpoint, and I laugh with relief when it spits out the maximum two hundred and fifty pounds. In all this, they hadn’t got around to closing my bank account down yet. I ditch the card, my handbag and Alison’s phone in a nearby bin and quickly go to Boots and buy battery-operated hair clippers, pink and blue spray hair dye, make-up and black nail varnish. I visit three charity shops in a row and buy the hippiest, grungiest clothes I can find, along with an army surplus jacket and some second-hand Doc Martens that just about fit. I pick up a load of big junk jewellery of crosses and skulls and some leather bracelets. Sweat is slick on my skin and my heart is racing but my mind is clear. I’ve learned a lot over the years. They’ll expect me to be mousy still. Maybe change my hair colour and put some glasses on, but no more. They’d be underestimating me. Be big and bold and hide in plain sight. Be someone new.

In Costa Coffee I go to the disabled toilet cubicle that has a mirror and sink and I work fast. When I’m done, even I don’t recognise myself. I look younger, which is a surprise. Thirty at most. Thick kohl rises at points around my eyes, dark and angry. My lips are slashes of deep purple and my nails are black. My hair is almost gone; a buzz cut at the sides with a short pink and blue strip down the middle that leads to a narrow ponytail. The trousers are slightly too big and they hang on my hips, accentuating the youthful look. I’ve lost weight and the strip of belly that shows when I move is flat and taut.